Sunrise
by flufflybunny
Summary: One version of how things went, at the end. Murtagh POV. Heliocentrism


Hi. I wrote another fic. Go me. This one is for Fanfic100 too; for the prompt Sunrise. And somehow it went apocalyptic. Also, has not been beta'd, so if anyone spots anything wrong? Say so. I will fix it. Concrit is love. Reviews are love. Flames are hate.

Anyhoo. CP made this world. (So did McCaffrey and Tolkien, but...) Not me. Therefore not mine.

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_Title: Sunrise_

_Author: Flufflybunny_

_Rating: low T, I guess. _

_Pairings: Um. Well. Murtagh/Nasuada, Arya/Faolin, Eragon/Arya, hints of Galbatorix/Morzan, Morzan/Selena (but for those two you have to squint). Maybe Murtagh/Arya? Probably more, but not off the top of my head._

_Summary: One version of how things went, at the end_

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_Sunrise._

He stands with Eragon, and Nasuada, and Arya, (_the golden ones, what's_ he _doing here?) _in the stillness before the dawn, at the beginning of the end of the world.

Roran is down below, with the foot-soldiers, rallying the troops (was _he_ like this, before?)—he'll be a good King, someday, once he gets his head out of his ass, and Katrina's good at that—Nasuada will join him soon, war-cry on her lips, and he's seen the future and it breaks his too-fragile heart. For now, though, they are who they were at the beginning, the four of them rebels on fire.

Eragon turns to him, hand gripping the elf-princess', their dragons circling overhead, and smiles. It's forgiveness, and a promise_—Never again_—and he grips them with hands and heart and mind and _smiles back_.

Nasuada leans her head on his shoulder—she wouldn't leave, despite what he told her, what he learned in those days of pain and darkness and that one ray of light. He kisses her brow—Arya smiles at them, melancholy in her eyes. Faolin is gone, never to return, and Eragon isn't the same.

Her dragon calls, leads Thorn and Saphira up and up and _up, _until they touch the sky. It's beautiful—the people below are staring, war-hardened veterans (_all of them broken, none of them whole but together they fit and where do they go after?)_ awestruck by the sight of green and red and blue breaking the darkness. He smiles (_his last?) _and he wonders at all of this.

Last night there was alcohol and end-of-it-all promises, and things they never thought they'd have to say, back when they were young and the war was a game. They've lost too many, now, to harbour that particular delusion—Elva and Trianna and Angela, fallen in their defense _(in Eragon's, and the youngest Rider will never forgive himself for being so young and foolish to let them walk into that trap_)--but they have others.

_We'll win the war_, he knows that's what Eragon's sure of, because he still believes in right and wrong and fairy-tales and maybe that's why Saphira chose him.

_After this, I can give up, find him again_—Arya doesn't believe in an afterlife, like Orik (another, fallen, in defense of Arya's young dragon), but she believes in love, and Faolin, and rightness. He remembers falling, one too many times, the King catching him and pulling him up but not before he felt the kiss of black death. It was peace, but he did not see his mother, or his father, or anyone he'd ever loved.

Roran is convinced, _they'll win, and Eragon'll kill the King, and everything will be right again, after_. And he's not so cruel that he'll inform him of the anarchy that will surely follow, of the bloodshed that always comes with upheaval.

Nasuada knows, though, and she just—she breaks him, when she believes that his visions were wrong, that the King planted them in his head, that her father's armour will keep her safe as Ajihad himself always did.

He, himself, doesn't believe in anything. Except that death will follow this sunrise and that bards will sing of it for ages past. That the sun, rising, will bathe the land in gold and pink and orange, and that their war (_petty, compared to what he's seen, dreamed of, in wiser men's minds_) will stain it crimson.

Last night they mourned all who died, swore to avenge them on the morrow day. Eragon gave a speech, and Roran and Nasuada, and Arya sang to them of a long-ago battle like theirs but not—Katrina kissed Roran one last time and took the women and children (non-combatants, he remembers, are a liability, though he knows Katrina would have loved to fight alongside her husband) out, to safety (not in Surda, long fallen, but the mountains of the Spine) with a spell of theirs cast on them, and all the weapons they could spare besides.

Eragon tried to get him to speak, at the fire. He said no. It was not the time to ask forgiveness—on the burning dawn he would earn it.

Saphira and Eragon made fireworks, and neither he nor Nasuada could bring themselves to chide him for wasting his Rider-magic, not when the next day held nothing in it but death. And it made Arya smile, which was far too rare these days, even with her dragon.

He kissed Nasuada, in the darkness, told her he'd loved her since he first met her, and then with all of himself when he saw her fight—all gold and steel and warm darkness—and she smiled at him like the sun rising, and he saw death in it too, like the sun, but he didn't care, just this once let him have this, even if everything else went wrong, please?

So he fell into her, and when he woke the world was ending.

They, the first four, fly to the the top, Nasuada riding on Thorn's back with him, cheek pressed against him, and Saphira flying so close to Arya's emerald dragon, pleasure falling off them in waves. It's hard to see, but dragons have eyes like cats, so their Riders can rub the sleep from their eyes and prepare for the enormity of this end-game.

Eragon says, breaking the almost-tangible silence on the edge of the cliff, "We're stronger together, than we were before. We can win this."

He says nothing, knows Saphira's Rider is trying to muster all the hope he can, in difficult circumstances the boy he once was should never have had to face.

The magic in his fingertips burns, almost, and his hand rests on his father's sword. Eragon has a new one, sapphire set in its hilt, and it should be fitting that the sword that brought Galbatorix to power in the hands of his lover should bring him down in the grip of Morzan's son.

Nasuada looks at him, eyes so wise for one so young _(but they were never young, were they, not like _Eragon) and she brushes a feather-light kiss to his lips, wishes Eragon luck, hugs Arya tightly for a moment. Thorn blesses her, as he's done before, and sapphire and emerald eyes confer the wisdom of ages.

He watches her leave, then, sword on her back and fire in her eyes, and he hopes that the visions were wrong. She pauses, halfway down the rise, and smiles like heartbreak. He waves, and in his mind Thorn holds him safe.

Arya says, in the quietness that falls as Nasuada leaves, and the first fingers of rose brush the sky, "I--"

Eragon rests his forehead on hers, tells her, "Me too," and he feels like he's intruding.

He waits half a heart-beat before he whispers, so soft only Thorn can hear him, "Make that three of us, scared out of our minds." Thorn rumbles, reassuring.

Three dragons land behind them, and they wait for the dawn.

Arya says, "Soon," withdrawn inside her head, and so strong, even though he can see her holding herself together with luck and skill and hope she doesn't even really believe in.

He nods, and Eragon grips his sword-hilt tightly, but expertly, not with the weak hold of the young warrior he used to be.

The magic burns inside them, and inside their dragons. He reaches for Thorn, with hand and heart, feels the mind twin of his own, goes _home_. He knows he's glowing, a rich ruby-red, like fine wine, because Nasuada told him the first time she saw him do this, and _oh_, he's never lost anyone, not like this, not really (_you never cared enough_, Eragon's voice in his mind, from one of those fights that almost killed him), and it hurts. He sees her through the magic-haze, and her aura is bright gold. His sun.

The wind picks up, whipping around them—oh, mood-setting weather. Wonderful. Arya looks beautiful, long dark hair (_he'll never have a chance to ask her how she fights with it like that, now, and he'd meant to but now is definitely not a good time_) flowing into the air behind them, and her dragon chuffs, blowing it out of the way, and he cough-laughs.

Her eyes are deep forest-green (_pupils gone, fallen into the power, like him?)_, like emeralds men have killed for (_oh my people, sins of our fathers)_, and the threads of green surround her like a cloud. She is so ethereally beautiful that for a moment he does not believe in death, but (_Tornac spread out like a doll, blood splashed across his chest) _he's seen too much for that.

Eragon is smiling, feral and dangerous (_what did we do, we made a killer out of a broken child and can he be fixed?)_, blue like the heart of a candle-flame in his eyes and silhouetting his figure. He's an avenging angel, now (_we've given him purpose, and now all he can do is--) _and his silver sword has sparks of blue magic dancing down its blade.

Saphira spreads her armoured wings, first light gleaming off metal like skin, and breathes out a stream of blue fire.

Eragon raises his sword, as down below Roran's well-used war-hammer (_Orik and Roran working for three days and nights, and so proud in the end)_ rallies their troops to war.

Roran looks up, smiles (_the end of the world; what else can he do?), _and sketches a salute.

Nasuada, ensconced in a group of archers, waves to them, mouths two words (_their war-cry_), and settles her helm over her face. He can't see her eyes anymore, and for a moment he can't breathe.

The enormity of all of this—and there are enemy armies camped four hundred dragon-lengths away, and this is _such_ a good time to panic.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and there's no more time; Thorn's fire is melding with Saphira's, and green flame joins them.

Arya blinks, a little stunned by the intensity of the magic welding them together. Eragon grins (_like Roran, oh desperation my mother)_, and they can hear the marchers coming, because in the end of course they would still be defenders (_despite all their change they're still the same, maybe? Uplifting thought--)_.

And there is fire burning, so many colours, and he's in their minds and it would break him if hadn't done this a hundred times before but--

In a trance he mounts Thorn, and they fly through the fading darkness, flanking Eragon and Saphira, and the world is spread out like a panorama beneath them, and he can't tell the difference between his soldiers and the Empire's, and it doesn't matter, anymore.

Because against it all--the sun rises. The land flushes in gold and pink and orange, and they fight. And he hasn't been wrong since he was seven, and he thought his mother loved him.

Of course, in the end, the crimson wins.


End file.
